So who removed Whitney Houston’s coke stash?

The LAPD now have an open case of trying to figure out who supplied Whitney Houston with her cocaine and who tampered with the evidence before authorities arrived at her hotel room the night of her death.

With the coroner’s report out now as to how the singer died investigators are now beginning to piece together as of yet unresolved questions. According to the Los Angeles Coroner, it is said the singer drowned as a consequence of submerging under bath water whilst she was taking a bath as a consequence of experiencing a heart attack that led to a lack of consciousness.

At the time investigators have intimated that her death was likely precipitated by copious use of cocaine over the years including that evening where according to the coroner’s report Ms Houston’s blood levels of the substance were acutely high. And yet when investigators arrived there were no traces of cocaine and they now want to know why and who more than likely removed all proof of the narcotic before authorities arrived.

According to TMZ, Houston’s drug dealer is said to have removed all evidence of the drug, yet what remains questionable is how the outlet can be sure that this is the case, or whether the cocaine dealer tipped that he had been the one to come and go- something that strikes this author as remarkably unlikely. Could it then be that one of Houston’s family members or entourage knowing that if the authorities found the substance that there might now be criminal charges as well? Could it be a situation that various family members were aware of Ms Houston’s rampant drug use despite public denials of such affairs. Could one even wonder that Whitney wasn’t just getting high on her own but with someone else who now had to hide the evidence before authorities arrived?

About

I think the idea to start “Scallywag and Vagabond.” (SCV) originates from my myriad background and the many years I have spent in preferred cafes and brasseries extolling the virtues and subtle intricacies of ‘being’ as the Beaujolais ran, the cigarette wafted and the gentleman to my side pontificated while spraying himself with a deftly tied cravat and sun crested idolatry.’

I grew up in Australia where as a young man one was obliged to become a hero of sorts. A master swimmer, fighter of causes, ideals and disheveled denizen of aesthetics, and more often a carefree ‘larrikin’ who would occasionally poke his sun bronzed nose at authority and convention Read More